The Kendalls were an interesting family to say the least. The parents were about as normal as they come, but there was just something different about their children. I had been their babysitter for about a year, but they only needed me about once or twice a month when Mr. and Mrs. Kendall went out for a date night. They paid me well, so I kept quiet about how awful their children were when they were out of the house.

The two children had finally fallen asleep after an hour of me trying to wrestle them into their beds. They had so much energy and were not in the mood to fall asleep, but I started playing a podcast on my phone for them to listen to and they were able to lie down in their beds, listening intently to the story, and eventually, they both drifted off to a state resembling sleep.

I turned off the podcast, which was actually a quite interesting one about small-town murders, and I moved into my usual routine of reorganizing the house the two kids had trashed and scrubbing the crayon off the walls. Once the house was spotless, I was able to kick back on the couch with my phone and listen to some quiet music. As soon as I started drifting off to the lilting voice of Troye Sivan, a noise startled me back into full consciousness. My first thought was that the parents were home, but that wasn’t possible as they were viewing a Broadway show tonight (lucky!) and wouldn’t be back until much later at night, as New York City was an hour away and they had chosen to see the last show of the night instead of a matinee.

As soon as I got my wits about me enough to organize my thoughts and try to discern if the noise was from inside or outside the house, the noise squealed to a stop. I took a deep breath, trying to push it out of my mind. It was just some animal outside, although I wasn’t sure what kind of animal made a creak like that. It was more metallic than anything, with a shrill pitch to it—a classic horror-movie sound that announces the arrival of a silent killer who will undoubtedly sneak up behind the protagonist or minor side character created solely to kill off early to intensify the drama, and if the jumpscare is shot well, the viewer will hopefully scream or at least have some reaction resembling fear. I silently thanked God horror films were fictitious (for the most part.) The worst horror movies are the ones that are “based on a true story.”

To put myself at ease, I tiptoed to the kids’ room just to make sure that they were okay. For all I knew, the noise was just the natural creak of the door as Simon snuck out for a second cookie. Well, seventh cookie. It took a considerable amount of cookies to get him in bed in the first place. The door to their bedroom was shut tightly, although I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. If I had caught Simon sneaking around the halls, it was an easy explanation for the sound that was quickly starting to weigh on my conscience. I decided to look on the bright side. At least they were both safe, asleep in bed and unlikely to wake up and disturb my night anymore.

As I turned back toward the kitchen, I glimpsed a disturbing sight through the hallway window. Two children sat on a creaky swing set (which had previously not been there) rocking back and forth, they’re mouths moving continuously as if they were chanting or something. Simon lifted his head and smiled at me—one of those horror movie smiles only a kid can perfect. You know the smile. The “I’ve Been Possessed This Entire Time And You Had No Clue Now You’re Next” smile. That smile.